Welcome to Hockey Diaries, where Pass it to Bulis columnist Chris Nash breaks into the multi-million-dollar Yaletown homes of various Canucks, and pilfers an entertaining selection of their innermost thoughts.
These are the diaries of Bo Horvat.
...
The city is dark and loud and wet tonight, like when the lights go out at Rogers Arena and everyone throws their beer. Sometimes I think I shoulda played soccer; shown off my hair a little. But what do I know? I’m just a hard-nosed fella trying to find some answers in this godforsaken city.
Just moved into my new building: All-Star Apartments. Don't have any furniture yet. Don't need any. Won't be here long. As soon as the daylight ends, my mission begins. Heh. “Mission.” More like an obsession. Gotta get it outta my head! Gotta get it outta my head! Gotta hit the streets.
I unpack the only box I brought with me. The only box I need. Inline skates, elbow pads, knee pads, wrist guards, helmet. Mouth guard, shin pads, jock, neck guard, visor. No need to be a hero. This Knight’s gonna be dangerous enough as it is.
My entire life, old guys have been coming up to me and saying it. First it was “Bo knows spelling.” Then it was “Bo knows go karts.” And finally “Bo knows hockey.” Every day, without fail. Bo knows this, Bo knows that. And they were right. Bo did know, Bo was special. It pushed me. Gave me the confidence to be a champion.
That is until last week, when I got a mysterious voicemail on my phone. There was a muffled voice on the other end. A desperate voice I didn’t recognize: “I shouldn’t even be telling you this, man, but they’re not talking about you. There’s another Bo. And he knows. He always knows! Follow the clues-” And then BANG! A gunshot and the line went dead. That night changed my life. Who is this other Bo, and what does he know?! Does he know more than me? I’m an all-star!
Gotta get it outta my head! Gotta get it outta my head! Gotta focus.
The loose sand screams up at me as I smoosh over it with my ‘Blades. I should never have come to the beach. The night air tastes salty, like when your teammates wring the sweat from their practice gear into your water bottle. Hockey players are truly disgusting. So now I’m a lone wolf, sniffing along the beach for clues. I don’t choose the route; I just follow my instincts. The sky opens up, the tide comes in. Right now, my instincts are drowning me.
I skate up on the covered boardwalk to avoid the downpour. Maybe there’ll be some clues here. The clickety-clack, clickety-clack of my wheels bounce off the wooden slats and announce my arrival like John Shorthouse. But nobody seems to notice. Everyone here is drunk on moonlight and raindrops.
I look to my left - there’s a couple layin’ pipe on the sewer grate. To my right, a junkie playin’ horse near the basketball court. A drizzly dead end. It’s just the lovers, the dreamers… and me. There’s no rain-Bo connection here. Someday I’ll find it, but it ain’t tonight. I’m wastin’ my time.
I drop to my knees and howl up at the moon, frustrated at my lack of progress. Lone wolf. I bark until my throat goes hoarse and I collapse by the Zoltar machine. Zoltar, what do I do? I’m about to leave, when the machine lights up and a little flyer falls out of the slot. GOOD FOR ONE FREE TOUSLE AT THE NIGHT-NIGHT SALON.
The Night-Night Salon! Of course! I finally know my enemy. I brush the sand from my wheels and give Zoltar a pat on the butt. Taking to the pavement, I can feel my blood boiling. This Knight’s about to get medieval, because I am one cross Bo.
3am and the Night-Night Salon is lit up like the East Van sign. I can see my enemy, relaxing in the farthest chair. He’s got cucumbers on his eyes, head tilted way back. I sneak up behind him and grab a fistful of scraggly, wet hair.
“Erik Karlsson,” I growl in my best Batman impression. “What do you know about ‘Bo’?” But Karlsson isn’t biting.
“I know he shouldn’t mess with my hair.” I pluck the cucumbers from his face and toss them to a hungry dog waiting outside. I get him in a Bo-flex and lean in real close.
“Next time, it’s your eyeballs. Try again.” Karlsson can see I mean business.
“A-A-All Star Apartments,” he stammers. “Penthouse suite.”
All-Star Apartments? My own home? What a waste of time. Clearly, this mook is just jealous. I’m an all-star now. As I skate towards the exit, Karlsson can’t help but lob another snarky remark.
“See you at home, Horvat. First floor, right? Hahaha!” What a punk.
Another night, another bust. I skate home with my tail between my legs. Entering my building, I glance at the elevator as I walk past. Someday. I walk down the hallway and notice that the door to my apartment is ajar. Rolling in cautiously, I double-check my mouthguard and jock. I might need to be a hero after all. I get to the middle of the room, maintaining a soft focus and trusting my peripheral vision. That’s when the door slams behind me. Rookie mistake. I whirl around to see a big, bulky man wearing track shoes, football pads and brandishing a baseball bat. I get defensive.
“What are you, confused? Pick a sport.”
The giant man just chuckles. I am nothing to him.
“Wh-who are you?” I squeak.
“I’m Bo.”
“B-But I’m Bo.”
He slowly paces towards me, uprooting his giant legs one step at a time. The rhythm of the bat slapping against his palm is hypnotizing. I’m frozen. He snorts like a bull and lifts me off the ground with one hand.
“I know. Bo always knows.”
To be continued…
